


Floating

by thisstarvingartist



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Accidental Drug Use, BDSM exploration, Collars, First Kiss, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, Kink Exploration, M/M, Number of the Week - Freeform, Panic Attacks, Past Sexual Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder – PTSD, Power Play, Sex Pollen, Slapping, Sort Of, abuse recovery, petting, sexual healing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-15
Updated: 2019-01-15
Packaged: 2019-10-10 10:12:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17423930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisstarvingartist/pseuds/thisstarvingartist
Summary: Back in the early days of John’s career in espionage, Kara introduced him to a number of things that had awoken in him some previously undiscovered… inclinations. She characterized them as fetishes. John wasn’t as sure.





	Floating

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: the themes explored in this work are somewhat intense. I had particular trouble getting through certain parts, and I'm still not entirely happy with it, but I'd rather have it out in the open than sitting in my file folder forever. So here we are! Enjoy!

Back in the early days of John’s career in espionage, Kara introduced him to a number of things that had awoken in him some previously undiscovered… inclinations. She characterized them as fetishes. John wasn’t as sure. She handcuffed him to the frame of a bed two weeks into their partnership and told him, “Good boys don’t like to be owned, John.” He came twenty minutes later with Kara on top of him, her hands tight around his throat.

He was frightened by it. Being touched by Jessica had been as gentle and loving as loving could be, and he’d never wanted anything more from her. Now, he wondered. Was it something that he wanted? Was there some deep, secret side of him that liked to be brutalized, to be punished? Kara certainly thought so, and John—John couldn’t seem to make a very good argument against her.

Kara liked it rough, liked _being_ rough, and it made John feel something he couldn’t quite process; like it was something he _needed_ , rather than wanted. And it was dangerous. Kara called him a “glutton for punishment” and treated him accordingly, and he accepted it: every bite, every slap, every bruise that she left on the surface of his skin. He had bled, because of her. He had scars.

It didn’t become a problem with Finch until it did. Finch was almost like a handler more than a partner in the beginning of their relationship, but that quickly changed. In their line of work, there wasn’t much room for other intimate connections, so they came to depend on each other for more than John would have thought possible. They went to movies together; that was something John was unused to. But it felt good, almost safe—Harold was gentle with him. Harold was platonic. It made John almost forget how Kara used to make him hurt.

\--

The number was that of a wealthy businessman with a long list of disgruntled former lovers, Finch informed him.

“Mr. Barrows frequents a club called Prism—an establishment which caters to a very… specific clientele.” John examined the photograph of Barrows intently; he didn’t seem like a man with unusual tastes. He was pale, narrow-nosed and thin lipped, as bland looking as one would expect from a middle-aged businessman living in Manhattan.

“What kind of clientele?” John asked.

Finch looked uncomfortable. “How familiar are you with sexual sadism, Mr. Reese?”

John didn’t reply right away. An image floated through his mind; Kara standing over him, a thin metal rod in her hand and a razor-sharp smile— “I’m familiar with the concept.”

“Prism is a popular location for many members of the BDSM community in the area. It is highly selective, and you must present a valid membership identification card in order to enter.”

“Why are you telling me this, Finch?” John asked.

“Because it is likely that our perpetrator will be one of Mr. Barrows’ many lorn loves,” he said, “and almost all of them are members of this club.”

Finch continued to look uncomfortable. John broke the silence. “So, I go in, keep an eye on any suspicious activity happening with our number, and we have an easy night.” He shrugged. No big deal. He’d seen whips and chains before, he could do it again. It would be fine. There was an unpleasant taste in his mouth, and he realized suddenly that his jaw was locked. He loosened it immediately and focused on Finch.

“The problem is, Mr. Reese, that I can’t simply send you in alone,” Finch said.

“Oh?” John smirked. “Don’t like the idea of someone snatching me up, Finch?”

Finch eyed him dubiously. “If you were to go alone, you would be expected to find a submissive as early into the evening as possible. Like I said, this isn’t the type of club you enter for a casual drink.”

John wavered briefly. It hadn’t even occurred to him that he might play the Dom, and the thought that Finch had assumed he would left him feeling… unsettled. “So, I go as a sub, looking for a Dom, and make my way to Barrows.”

Something unusual that John couldn’t identify flitted across Finch’s face. “Unfortunately, Mr. Barrows is decidedly interested in women,” Finch said.

“Then how do I get close to him?”

“The situation is quite clear, Mr. Reese. To reach our number, we require both a Dom and a sub.”

John considered Finch’s proposal. He didn’t like it when Finch was out in the field; he’d lost a taste for it after Root had kidnapped him and nearly took him away for good. Fortunately, Harold was not one particularly comfortable with getting his hands dirty. It usually didn’t come up. In this particular context, John felt marginally at ease with the idea; if they went to the club as partners, then they shouldn’t have a problem staying together. Keeping Finch close by was something John very much preferred when faced with the alternative.

There were obvious caveats to the situation. The power dynamic that would have to be displayed between the two would require a rather intimate form of interaction, one which John hadn’t so much as considered in the past. One of them would have to be the Dom. Likely Harold; it would require little exertion on his part to play a bossy, powerful businessman looking for an eclectic sexual experience. He was technically John’s boss, anyway, and John didn’t mind taking his orders. Finch’s lips were turned down slightly.

“What’s wrong, Finch?” He was looking at John with a reluctance John wasn’t familiar with. Seeing the look of doubt on Finch’s face was unsettling; he was always sure, even if he didn’t like it, but now he was hesitant, indecisive.

He cast Finch an easy smile. “I don’t imagine finding I.D. cards will be too difficult for us,” he said.

Finch’s face suddenly cleared, and he sniffed primly. “No, it will not. Return to the library tonight, eight o’clock.”

“What should I wear?” John asked, half joking.

Finch’s lips quirked. “Something nice.”

\--

That past look of uncertainty was on Finch’s face again when John returned to the library that night. John was wearing a black button-down shirt (unbuttoned down to just above the navel) and dark pants, and had forewent the overcoat for the evening. Finch was dressed in his usual bespoke, though the colors were a little more… bold than usual. He had a crisp red tie, and matching pocket square, neither of which John had seen before. Leaning against the table was a long, black cane, which John had also never seen before. Finch looked him up and down critically, and John watched his gaze hover just for a moment on his exposed chest.

“As it would be relatively dangerous for us to engage in any kind of extreme physical activity, I elected to entrench ourselves within the more subtle side of the community,” Finch informed him. There was a small black box sitting on the table beneath Finch’s hand. John looked at it curiously, then up at Finch.

“What’s in the box, Harold?”

Finch pursed his lips. “A necessary item for our mission. I had it special ordered this morning. I do hope you won’t find it too degrading.”

He opened the box, and lifted out a thin strip of leather. John’s mouth grew dry as he realized what it was—a collar. Finch had bought him a collar.

“As I said before, I understand this isn’t ideal—” Finch handed John the article gingerly, as if uncomfortable even holding it. “I do think that if we emphasize the dominant and submissive dynamic between our two identities, we will be spared from engaging in the more… aggressive expectations of the club patrons.”

John stared down at the collar. It was smooth and well crafted, the bronzy metal clasps on its ends designed to lock easily together, with very little hassle. John was familiar with having something tight around his neck—thin metal strands with the intended use of garroting him, and a belt, one time, with Kara on a mission when she was bored and said, “let’s play around a little while we wait, hm?”

Along its edge, on a thin brass plate, read the words ‘ _Pet of Harold Gosling’_. There was something tight and hot in John’s throat.

“John? Are you all right?”

“Fine,” John croaked.

“Do you need help putting it on?” Harold asked. “It might be easier if I—”

“Please,” John barked out, startling both of them. Not looking directly at Finch, John proffered to him the collar. “I’d appreciate it.”

At the feeling of the smooth material slipping around his throat, John tensed. Standing so close, it was impossible for Finch not to have noticed, but he graciously made no comment. When the collar was securely wrapped around his neck, Finch asked, “is this too tight?” in a very soft voice that threatened to crush him. John released a shaky breath.

“It’s fine,” he said, and Finch locked the clasp, his fingers grazing lightly over John’s skin, leaving a thin trail of goosebumps in their wake. John shook himself, reached up to the collar and touched it carefully. It wasn’t tight at all, really; just a light, present feeling. Gentle. Nonthreatening.  John dropped his hand.

“Shall we?”

\--

John drove the town car down to the club. The drive was quiet, but John’s mind had been racing since they left the library. Harold informed him, minutes before their departure, that there was a second accessory they would be making use of during the evening:

“A leash?” John repeated, the words leaving him in a rush.

“It came with the collar,” Harold had said, almost defensively.

Now, in the car, John found that he was obsessing over it. It was sitting in Harold’s lap as they drove, coiled around his hand. John wondered. Would he pull very hard on it? No, probably not; he would probably give John a lot of slack, plenty of breathing room. He could feel, every time he swallowed, the light pressure of the collar around his neck. John flexed his fingers over the steering wheel and stared ahead.

When they parked, John exited the car first. He walked around it to the passenger side, where Harold was still seated, and opened the door for him. Harold rose out of the car, straightened his waistcoat, and in a tone of voice that was not quite Harold Finch, said:

“Are you prepared for the evening, Mr. Russo?”

It did something to John, when Harold shifted from one identity to another. He committed to it wholly, not just another name, but another person altogether. This was not Finch speaking to him now: this was Gosling. Extremely rich and haughty, a man looking for a thrill. Exactly what John had thought Harold was, the first day they met. He had been wrong, Finch was so much more—he was real, he was kind, he wanted to help people. But Finch was gone for the night, and in his place… Gosling.

John swallowed, and bowed his head. Harold reached up—there was a light tug at the collar as Harold hooked the leash to it, and when John straightened he could see the cord gripped loosely in Harold’s hand. John searched his face. He didn’t make eye contact, and looked straight past John toward the entrance of the club.

“Let’s go, then.”

The club was loud, and crowded, and dark. It was an impulse for John to latch his hand onto Harold’s elbow, initiate a physical connection between them. Harold glanced at him once, and John immediately released him. Finch didn’t mind the way John tended to manhandle him, knew it was out of protectiveness rather than an attempt at control. Gosling did mind: if he wanted to be touched, he would ask, and nothing else would be pardoned.

They made their way around the dance floor, Harold half a step ahead, leading John by a leather thread. John kept his head down, but his eyes were sharp, on the lookout for Barrows. He found him soon enough; sitting in the back of the room, on a slight landing that offered a view of the dance floor. On his lap sat a woman, brunette, who was feeding him something off a platter and ignoring the patrons around them. There was a velvet rope around the lounge area where they sat, and a burly bouncer stationed alongside it.

“Can we get closer?” John murmured in Harold’s ear, just loud enough to hear over the pounding music. Harold nodded curtly, and continued forward. When they reached the landing he stopped only for a moment to flash his identification card—platinum, John saw, a high paying member—and the bouncer waved him through.

Harold took a seat on an armchair beside Barrows, and pulled at John’s collar lightly, guiding. John perched carefully on the side of the chair, and made eye contact with the woman on Barrows’ lap—she looked him over, and smiled at him, tilting her head slightly. John kept his features schooled; she looked like Kara. In the dark, she could have _been_ Kara. John turned away from her, staring out into the fray of dancers and exhibitionists.

He remained carefully aware out of the corner of his eye as the woman leaned over and whispered something into Barrows’ ear. He looked up suddenly at John, scouring him with his eyes for almost a full minute before speaking.

“Lovely pet you have there,” Barrows said to Harold, above the din of the club. “What’s his name?”

Harold turned his head slightly to face Barrows. “John.”

“Is he for rent, or is it an exclusive arrangement?” Barrows asked.

A bit of Finch poked through the veil of Gosling as John felt Harold tense beside him, clearly displeased with the suggestion that John was something that could be rented. He kept a careful lid on his annoyance. “I’d be willing to negotiate,” Harold said. “What exactly do you have in mind?”

“I was thinking we could set up a play date,” Barrows said, nudging the woman, who was watching John again under heavy lids. “Georgia seems to have taken an interest in him.”

Harold turned to John, asking with a look; ‘Can you do this?’ and John nodded. Sure, whatever Harold needed—it would definitely make it easier for him to chat up Barrows, while they were gone. And if Georgia happened to be the threat, then keeping her at a distance from Barrows was a very good plan.

Georgia rose to her feet at the same time that John stood, and Harold held out his end of the leash to her. The shift from Harold’s light touch to Georgia’s firm grip was immediately apparent, and he felt himself resisting Georgia’s pull slightly. He kept his eyes on Harold as they moved away, and received an almost imperceptive nod before he leaned over to listen to Barrows whisper something into his ear.

\--

On the dance floor, Georgia was every bit as sultry and fluid as she had been on Barrows’ lap. She turned around to face John, and the look she had—the smile, that oh-so-familiar smile—gave away exactly what she wanted from him.

John could do this, he knew—he’d done it before, he could take it. He liked it, didn’t he? He _needed it_. She yanked on the leash— _hard_ —and John was pulled forward, pressing close into her, feeling her grind against him eagerly.

He let her touch him, rove her fingers over his exposed chest, pull at his shirt. He let her roll it off his shoulders, tensed a little when she left the sleeves half-on, restricting his mobility. She grazed her teeth over his shoulder, then bit down, hard. John forced himself to remain still, to not fight back. This wasn’t an attack, he reminded himself; this was supposed to be fun. He was supposed to be having _fun_. She licked the mark and leaned away, caressing the back of her hand over John’s face. Then she reeled back and hit him.

It was a slap hard and fast, directly across his jaw. It did more than sting, it left him half dazed, and burned like a coal against his skin, unforgiving. He forced himself to remain calm. This had happened before, with Kara; the fear, the fight-or-flight response kicking in. He just had to push it down, let himself succumb to the punishment. This was fine. He could handle it. He’d done this before. It was fine. It was fine. It was fi—

There was suddenly a hand closing on his bicep, gripping hard, turning him. He looked back; Harold, staring at him, a foreboding look on his face barely visible in the dim, flashing light. He dragged John back, away from Kar—away from Georgia. She seemed almost baffled by the interruption.

“I prefer it when people play nice with my things,” Harold said to her, and it sounded to John almost like a snarl, and he was being led quickly off the dance floor and back to the lounge.

Harold still had a grip on his arm. Barrows was there, watching the sequence of events with a bored look, clearly disappointed by the interruption. He didn’t voice such an opinion, however—bad etiquette, John guessed—and Harold assisted John in pulling his shirt back over his arms. Harold took a seat on the far end of the lounge, away from Barrows. There was a flat pad on the floor beside the chair, and John sat down on it heavily.

He felt hollow, still on the defensive. He was shaking, he knew; his hands were clenched tight into fists on his thighs. He had to calm down. The burn on his cheek was gone but he still felt it, like a ghost, haunting him.

Then, unexpectedly, a hand was in his hair. A careful graze through silver locks, careful but unwavering. John felt his body relax into the touch of Harold’s hand as it carded through his hair. Almost against his will, he leaned against Harold’s leg. The hand on his head continued to stroke him. It was all Harold could do under the circumstances; they had to keep up appearances, especially now that John had so successfully botched their initial plans to get close to Barrows.

He felt his eyes roll slightly as Harold scratched behind his ear, over the nape of his neck and then go back to petting. It was nice. It was _very_ nice. He felt the fear ebbing out of him, his muscles relaxing in increments. Eventually, he wound his arm around the back of Harold’s calf, rested a hand on his shoe and rubbed the seam of it with his thumb. This was good. He spent the night with his eyes half trained on Barrows, half sunken under heavy eyelids.

When Georgia did finally make a move against him, John almost had to shake himself out of a trance; he was on his feet in seconds, his head suddenly cold without the touch of Harold’s hand. But he had a grip on Georgia’s wrist and the syringe was safely held aloft, away from Barrows’ exposed neck. He looked horrified, and scrambled away, ordering security to the floor immediately. Harold and John made a swift exit, under cover of writhing kinksters, and fled into the city, another number saved.

\--

Late, late into one night days later, John was lying on top of the covers of his bed, staring at the ring of leather on his bedside table. The collar. He hadn’t thrown it out, or given it back to Harold, who never did ask him to return it. Certainly he couldn’t have forgotten, but John had to guess that Finch anticipated him to dispose of it at his own discretion. He had not disposed of it. It was there, laying between his alarm clock and a glass of water, laid out as if it was nothing particularly noteworthy.

He wasn’t sure why he hadn’t yet gotten rid of it; it was a liability, all told, given that anyone who saw it in John’s possession could then be able to link the Warren identity with Gosling, and that was not a relationship very easily explained away. Then again, it wasn’t as if John had very many visitors in his apartment—exactly two. Harold, of course, and Bear, when Lionel wasn’t babysitting him.

Harold had not recently visited the loft, which was all for the better—though John quietly mourned his absence—he was definitely not eager for Harold to walk in on him with Gosling’s collar still in his possession. But at once, he was sorely reluctant to get rid of it. He couldn’t say why; he didn’t want to examine it too closely.

But there he was, still thinking about that night. He couldn’t stop: Harold’s hand in his hair, the soft scratch of his pant leg on John’s cheek. Something in him warmed up when he remembered it. Not a sexual desire, exactly, but something alarmingly intimate. He wondered, hysterically, if Harold would let him get down on his knees for him again. Wondered if Harold would maybe hit him. If he begged, maybe—

But Harold would never do that. He would never hit John. Part of him ached with that knowledge, whether from disappointment or relief, he was not clear. He covered his face with his hands and laid back on the bedspread.

\--

John sneezed when the powder blew up into his face, the mysterious white bag pluming up from the floor where the number had dropped it. John shook his head, took aim, and fired; the number dropped to the floor with a yelp, clutching his knee desperately.

“Call Carter,” John said as he tapped his earpiece. “Tell her where the number is.”

“Of course—What happened?” Finch’s voice, tinny over the speaker, asked him.

Already, now, John could feel his senses fogging, and he wiped at his face, removing the last of the powder from under his nose and on his lips. “Not sure—some kind of powder he was shipping—” he sneezed again. His eyes began to water.

“Powder? Mr. Reese, return to the library immediately,” Finch said, and John could feel himself shaking his head.

“No, Finch, I don’t know what this stuff is. I don’t know how it’s going to affect—”

“Which is exactly why you will come back here, _now_ ,” Harold said insistently, and the tone of his voice left no room for argument.

“Ah, Finch—I can’t—” He sneezed again. “—I’m coming.”

\--

The idea of a highly trained former CIA operative high on some mystery drug and pursuing him to a secluded location did not exactly fill Harold with delight. It was John, though—he trusted John. He did not trust him rambling the streets of New York under some unknown chemical influence, but he did trust John not to hurt him.

Nonetheless a small jolt of alarm ran through him when he heard the heard the gate to the library screech open, and he turned and stood up, looking out down the hall. John was standing in the entryway, looking ragged, undone, his eyes wide and shoulders slumped. His expression was frantic, desperate.

“Finch,” he said, as he staggered in, approaching Harold at a velocity that was somewhat concerning. Harold held his ground.

“Mr. Reese,” Harold said, and John stopped in his tracks, focused on him.

“Finch,” he repeated, and a bright, flowering smile spread suddenly across his face. “I came.”

“Yes, that was very good of you,” Harold told him, and he watched John shiver slightly. He took a step closer to Harold, stopped, and his face fell into something closer to that look of desperation that had been there when he first entered.

“I need,” he said, his voice strained.

“It’s alright, John,” Harold soothed, and John took another weak step toward him.

“Please,” John said to him, a whine, and Harold was confused, almost terrified, by the tone of his voice. “Please.”

“What do you need?” Harold asked him, and John wavered in the air, hands clenching and loosening at his sides. Harold wanted to move in closer, but was hesitant; he could see perspiration gleaming on John’s pallid face, the tightness of his jaw even from a distance.

“I need—” John choked, and said, “I want to—”

He took the final stumbling steps towards Harold and collapsed in front of him. Harold gasped, leaning down to try and catch him, but John sat up on his knees and gripped Harold’s leg tightly.

“Can you—Will you—”

“Whatever you need,” Harold told him, and after a thought, brushed a hand through his hair.

He hadn’t done anything so intimate as that since their night at the club, almost two weeks ago now. Prism, where Barrows had his would-be assassin grope and slap John in the face; Harold didn’t think he’d moved quite that fast in a long time, to get to John and remove him from her reach. He couldn’t quite say what it was that had triggered in him such a vicious reaction; after all, John was tough enough to take a slap, but it had been so much harder than necessary—

At the touch of his hand to John’s head, Harold heard the man let out something that sounded frighteningly like a sob, and he clutched Harold’s pant leg harder, burying his head into him. When he looked up at Harold, though, he was smiling.

“Will you—” he reached behind Harold, and suddenly his desk chair was touching the backs of his knees. Thoroughly confused, Harold sat, and failed to stifle another gasp as John pulled him close, nuzzled the outside of his thigh and breathed out harshly. Harold was still petting his head as John let out little sighs and half moans, sidled up now totally against Harold’s leg. Harold had no idea what to make of this; whatever drug John had been given, it was making him behave as if—

“Do you like this?” Harold asked softly, rubbing little circles at the base of John’s ear and listening to him murmur quietly against his hand. John nodded, rubbing his cheek over Harold’s leg and dropping his head into his lap. Harold tried very hard to fight the growing arousal in the pit of his stomach at John down on his knees in front of him. It was horribly inappropriate, disrespectful of their relationship, their friendship, of _John_. The man in question seemed all the more contented, and was gazing up at Harold, something strange and adoring in his eyes. His pupils were blown wide, and he blinked slowly, spreading his hand out on Harold’s lap.

“Want to make you happy,” John mumbled. “Give you anything.”

“I don’t want anything from you, I’m happy as we are,” Harold assured him, resting his other hand atop John’s lightly. It was true; although he couldn’t honestly deny that he had developed a startlingly intense attraction to John—both physically and emotionally—he had no desire to put at risk their professional relationship in pursuit of a daydream. He liked them as they were—he didn’t need anything more, or less.

John was insistent. “Anything,” he said, lifting his head and tipping it back slightly. “You can hit me if you want.”

“ _What?_ ” Harold said, aghast, his hand stilling.

“I’d let you,” John told him. “It’s okay if you do it. I trust you.”

“John, I don’t—do you _want_ me to hurt you?” His increasing alarm did not lessen when John laid his head down on Harold’s lap, twisted his hand to take Harold’s.

“Kara liked to,” John said softly, staring at their hands. “She liked to… She told me I liked it too.”

“She _told_ you?” Harold felt a dawning horror at the implication of John’s words. John leaned back and took off his jacket—he began unbuttoning the front of his shirt, and Harold made a move to stop him, but he stopped himself at the third button, pushed the fabric back to reveal a long, thin scar across his pectoral.

“She liked to…” John said again, running his fingers over the length of the scar, remembering. He looked up at Harold, his face open and honest. “You can if you want to. I can take it.”

“John, I…”

“Please?”

Harold tensed, and then he was suddenly, desperately furious at Kara Stanton for doing his to John. Someone he _cared_ about, someone who deserved so much better than the damage that had been inflicted on him. Harold should have—of course he couldn’t possibly have known, but he _should have_. He should have been able to tell, been fixing this for John—

But he couldn’t, not so easily. He couldn’t fix what had been broken, but he wanted more than anything to mend those wounds, suddenly so exposed to him. The tiny scars across John’s chest, the wild look in his eyes—hope, maybe, or fear.

Harold laid a hand, viciously gentle, on John’s cheek; watched his eyes flutter shut.

“Everything is going to be all right,” he murmured. “Everything will be just fine.”

\--

Harold took him home. John couldn’t remember the majority of the trip; everything was too glossy, and left him slipping in and out of reality. He didn’t need to fight it, really. He was with Harold. At the thought John was overcome with a warm, welcome cascade of certainty; Harold would take care of him. Harold would love him. He was safe, he was kept. Harold kept glancing at him, his face pinched with worry.

When they reached the townhouse—a new one, one John had never seen before—Harold helped him up the stairs, and he was thrown back in time to a day not so long ago, when he had a bullet in his side and Harold had rushed to catch him, guide him away with careful hands from the people he had once worked for, once trusted. Harold had saved him, once again. Like he had so many times.

John levied himself upright after they made it into the house, mourned the loss of contact with Harold as he pulled away to rid himself of his coat and vest. He watched Harold disrobe, drank in the informality of it.

Harold caught him staring, and sighed. “John, take your shoes off.”

John had never taken off his shoes at such a speed. He nearly tripped out of them in his haste, but caught himself on a banister before he fell over, and carefully collected his shoes and placed them beside Harold’s.

Harold gestured to the room beyond. “You can go sit on the couch—it’s fairly comfortable.”

John did not sit on the couch. He slumped over onto the floor at the foot of it, crossed his legs and watched Harold continue to devest himself. When the process was complete and he was void of shoes, jacket and waistcoat, he turned into the room that John was in, and hesitated at the sight of John sitting on the floor.

“You don’t have to…” he sighed again and crossed the room over to him. He picked up a cushion and handed it down to John. “At least make yourself comfortable, would you? That floor can’t possibly be pleasant to sit on.”

He sat down on the couch and turned on the television. John stared at it, tried to focus on the colors and the shapes, but couldn’t quite match them to the words filtering in. All he could hear properly was Harold’s voice, crisp and clear like a bell.

“I’m sure you won’t be very happy with yourself when you come back to your senses,” Harold said, as John rested his head against Harold’s leg. “I don’t quite think you know what it is you’re doing.”

“No,” John mumbled. “Don’t care.”

“I do,” Harold said petulantly, and John smiled up at him. Harold’s gaze was soft. “I don’t want you skulking off to berate yourself for this later.”

“Okay,” John said.

“I’m serious,” Harold told him. “And we’re going to talk about it.”

“Okay,” John said again.

“I know neither of us are particularly adept at being emotionally honest.”

“No,” John agreed.

“But we’ll have to try.”

“Okay,” John said a third time. Harold hesitated for a moment, then put a hand in his hair. John’s eyes rolled back, and he relaxed into a calm lassitude that Harold had never witnessed before. It was… satisfying. John’s contentment had always been something of a priority for Harold, and this—this was a whole new level of providing that he had never even entertained.

“I’ve never done this before,” Harold murmured, as he stroked John’s head, “But if it’s something you want, then I’m happy to learn.”

John didn’t say anything, but he sighed, and Harold took that to be as much an answer as any. They lapsed into silence, and Harold watched John fall asleep at his feet and wondered what exactly they would wake up to tomorrow.

\--

They didn’t talk about it—not immediately. John was gone from the safehouse by the time Harold woke up in the morning, and barely after he left himself he received a new number for them to assess. Then there was another, almost immediately after that. Before Harold knew it, a week had passed, and they had returned to their old routine almost as if nothing had changed.

Almost. Now, John kept himself at a careful distance when they were within arms-reach and avoided eye contact with him whenever possible. It was…

…Frustrating.

Back at the library, John acted calm. Too calm. Harold could tell that he was actively forcing his muscles to stay lax, keeping the tone of his voice light and evasive when he spoke—which was rarely. They had been sitting in what used to be a comfortable silence for the better part of an hour, while Harold worked. John’s gaze was focused on a row of books behind Harold’s head.

“I should be finished with this in a few minutes,” Harold said, receiving a curt nod from the man in the armchair. Encouraged, he continued, “I was thinking we could go to dinner after that. Perhaps discuss—”

“Sorry, I have plans,” John interrupted.

Harold stopped typing. “ _Plans?_ ” Harold echoed, incredulous. With _whom?_ It wasn’t as though either of them had particularly expansive social circles, and any arrangements John would have made Harold would know about. Not that he meant to be controlling—it was just a factual assessment of their relationship. Anything John did, Harold was at least loosely aware of; if he had become close with someone else over the course of the past week, Harold would have most certainly found out before now. Which had to mean that John was lying to him.

On the other side of the room, John’s eyes had gone wide. It seemed he hadn’t planned out his escape that far. “Yeah, Finch.” _Finch._ Not _Harold_ , right now. “Plans.”

Evidently, he meant to leave it at that. He stood up abruptly and made his way to the coat rack to retrieve his jacket. Harold turned in his chair and stared at him outright.

“I would think that you’d have more respect for me as a person, and not lie to my face,” Harold said acidly.

John tensed at the accusation and turned to look at Harold. “I do respect you.”

Harold waited. John struggled. He was still holding onto his coat, caught halfway between pulling it off the hook and letting go. “I do respect you… and that’s why I don’t want to talk about it.”

“That’s unfortunate,” Harold said. “Because I think we have to.”

“We don’t,” John told him, and took his coat. “We really don’t.”

Fine, Harold thought: if John didn’t want him to talk, then he would have to act. He stood up, and walked over to him. Standing chest to chest, Harold was several inches shorter than John, but the way he looked at him made Harold feel somehow taller. John went still, a wary look in his eyes. Harold tilted his head.

“You’ll have to excuse me, if I cross a line, just say so,” Harold said. Then he slapped him.

The strike was swift, from the inside of Harold’s palm straight across his cheek. Compared to what John was used to it was light, and barely left a sting, but it shook him to his core. Before he had time to react, Harold was pulling him in by his jaw. He placed a soft kiss directly against John’s tingling skin, soothing the pain. John shuddered, clung to Harold’s sleeve like it was a lifeline.

“I don’t want to punish you,” Harold told him, “Because I don’t believe you’ve done anything to deserve it.”

“Harold, I…” he closed his eyes.

“If that’s what you need from me, however,” Harold continued, “I will.”

\--

They went to John’s apartment, this time. The taxi ride was made in resolute silence. John stared blindly out the window, still as a statue. His hand was gripping the seat between himself and Harold. To a stranger, he might have only seemed tense. But Harold knew him. He knew what panic looked like on John. Without a word, Harold stretched his hand out and laid it over John’s. He jumped, and snapped his attention to Harold, who was staring ahead. After a moment, the tenseness in John’s hand began to fade, and he slowly sank back into the seat.

Once they entered the apartment, John turned to lock the door. He took his time doing so, and Harold let him, observed the overlay of the apartment thoughtfully. His gaze settled on the nightstand by the bed, an unexpected item laying atop it. He made his way across the room, picked up the collar and stared at it. _Pet of Harold Gosling_ , the inscription read in flowering, delicate font. He ran a thumb over the words.

When he turned around, John was facing him, his eyes locked on the collar, then flickering up to Harold.

“Have you worn this since our engagement with Mr. Barrows?” Harold asked, not accusatory, but curious. John shook his head tightly. “May I ask why?”

He could see the hesitation in John’s eyes. “You didn’t… You have to…”

“You want me to tell you to?” Harold offered. A snappish nod was the response. He set the collar down gently.

“I won’t ask you to wear this,” Harold informed him. He interrupted the rising panic in John’s eyes with, “You don’t belong to Gosling. You belong to me. If you want, I’d be happy to special order a new—”

John made a strangled noise from across the room and was suddenly directly in front of him, gripping his arms and hiding his head against Harold’s shoulder.

“Please…” John said, his voice barely a whisper.

Harold raised his hands to run carefully along John’s flank, felt him shudder violently. “All right. Take off your coat.”

John removed his coat. He took Harold’s, as well, and hung them up at the door. Harold followed him and touched the spot on his back directly between the shoulder blades. He felt John freeze beneath his hand, and lightly followed the trail of his spine down to the small of his back. Then he brought his hand up the same path again and went beyond the shoulders, rested his fingers along the nape of John’s neck.

“Will you turn around?” Harold asked. John did. He stared down at Harold, waited. Harold rubbed the base of his neck for a moment as he considered their options.

“As I told you before, I’m not accustomed to this kind of interaction,” Harold told him, and John immediately began to pull away.

“You don’t have to,” John said, falling silent and still as Harold clamped his hand down and held him in place.

“You’re absolutely right,” Harold replied. “So believe me when I say that I won’t agree to do anything I don’t want to. What I’m concerned with now is figuring out what it is _you_ want.”

John’s expression evolved quickly from confused to almost distraught, then went perfectly neutral. “This is fine.”

Harold frowned. “John.”

“Harold.”

“I believe I made clear to you that I don’t appreciate it when you lie to me.”

“I’m not.”

Harold slapped him. John’s head twisted to the side, a quiet grunt of pain escaping on a surprised exhale. His eyes were slightly glassy when he turned to face Harold again. “Please, Mr. Reese. Honesty is imperative in this situation.”

He opened his mouth, then shut it again, and just looked at Harold helplessly. Harold sighed.

“All right. We’ll try something else, then.” Harold dropped his hands from John’s waist, and in a flat, commanding tone, “Get on your knees for me, John.”

John knew what to do with orders. He’d taken them all his life, he was good at it, and when Harold gave them, he trusted them. When Harold asked what he wanted, he knew he wouldn’t give the right answers—anything he ever wanted was tainted with guilt or denial, the only thing he had left of himself anymore were the orders that were given to him, and the belief that Harold would wield him with justice.

But orders, John could do. Orders from Harold, he liked.

John immediately knelt before him, gazed at Harold as he leaned back on his heels.

“Very good,” Harold praised him, and John _flinched_ , and dropped his gaze to where it was level with Harold’s groin.

Harold’s brow furrowed. That wasn’t the response he had expected, but there was very little time to contemplate the meaning behind it with John reaching out with his hands and his mouth, running it over the line of Harold’s cock. He let out a stuttering breath and leaned back against the wall. It was good—of course it was. It was John. Everything John did was good.

Oh.

“Wait,” Harold said, catching his hands as they reached up to undo Harold’s fly. John froze, his eyes flickering up meet Harold’s. He squeezed his hands and smiled gently. “It’s all right. I’ve only realized that I think there’s something more—” Necessary? Important? _Vital_? “—Relevant that we need to do first. May I kiss you?”

\--

“May I kiss you?”

And, yes. Of course, yes, of course—he didn’t need to ask. He didn’t need to ask John for anything. He could just take—and take and take and take—and John would give, happily, ecstatically, everything he possibly could. He always would, always had, needed to, craved it. He scaled Harold’s body and took his head in his hands, pressed their lips together.

Harold unbuttoned John’s shirt methodically and let John work his mouth open. He didn’t bite John’s lips, didn’t crush his mouth. If John pushed too hard, Harold slowed him down, patiently smoothed out his jagged edges.

“Agh, Finch—” John ground out between kisses as Harold’s hands worked down lower on John’s body and pressed an open palm against his groin.

“Harold, if you please,” Harold corrected him, unbelievably lucid whereas John felt almost on the verge of his sanity.

“Harold,” John said.

“Yes?”

He breathed out harshly. “Hit me.”

The sting was a welcome relief from Harold’s otherwise delicate treatment. His breath stuttered out of him as Harold stroked his newly exposed chest carefully. “Again.”

Harold tipped John’s head back, examined the pinking skin on his cheek. “I think it might be best if we put a limit on the number of times I slap you in the face,” Harold said. “Let’s try something different. John…” He ran his knuckles down the line of John’s jaw, criminally gentle. “…would you like to be very good for me?”

John choked. “I can’t… I’m not…”

“Not… good?” Harold inquired. “On the contrary. You’re as good as it gets.”

\--

Harold was too gentle. He was _too gentle_ , it _hurt_ , more than it did when Kara hit him, more than a bullet to the chest. He didn’t _deserve it_. But Harold was relentless, reverent with him. He arched his back and nearly screamed as Harold kissed the hollow of his neck, slowly worked two slicked fingers into him.

“Please, Harold, I need—” It was too much, too much; John couldn’t stop himself from babbling.

“Anything, John,” Harold said calmly. “Just ask.”

“Choke me,” John gasped suddenly, fighting off waves of panic and despair that threatened to overtake him.

Harold slowed, and stared at John. “Oh, all right.”

He laid his hands on John’s throat, and something inside John fractured. He clenched his fists until his nails pierced skin and screwed his eyes shut.

\--

_“Good boys don’t like to be owned, John.”_

_\--_

A hand, soft and warm, touched his cheek, and he flinched away from it.

“… _John_ , talk to me,” Harold’s voice filtered in through a ringing haze that he realized suddenly had enveloped him. “Please open your eyes.”

It took so much for him to obey the request, but it was _Harold_. When his eyes were open, his vision was blurry. The hand that had grazed his cheek was there again, wiping tears from his eyes. They had moved; Harold was laying alongside John, now, running one hand gently through his hair. He was staring at John with open concern.

“You’re shaking.”

“I’m sorry,” John whispered.

“No,” Harold said immediately. “You’ve done nothing wrong. You were very good, John.”

A sound almost like a whimper escaped from John’s throat. “I’m really not, Harold.”

“Why not?”

He let out a pained, shuddering laugh, and didn’t answer. He couldn’t. He _couldn’t_.

Harold’s thumb brushed lightly back and forth over John’s cheek as he spoke, halting and clearly upset. “I’m sorry, you shouldn’t feel like you have to explain yourself. I just wish—I wish I could fix—”

John stopped his hand, and his words died along with his roving touch. John opened his hand, kissed the skin of his palm softly. Harold rolled onto his back, wincing. “I’m sorry. I can’t sit up like that for very long.”

“It’s okay.”

They laid in silence for a long time. Bit by bit, John’s trembling faded, his breathing evened. His eyelids were growing heavy.

“Harold.”

“Mm?” John turned his head to look at Harold. He was half asleep, his glasses askew on his face. A smile pulled at the corners of John’s mouth as he reached over to remove the lenses, fold them and place them on the nightstand. His fingers grazed over the collar that still laid there, and he wondered.

“Thank you.”


End file.
